


Maglor's dance

by Elenluin



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 06:50:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5196305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenluin/pseuds/Elenluin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of the first age, when Maglor has just discarded the Silmaril and the land is being destroyed, the bard is consumed by the thought that life is malleable, and all his wrongdoings were the consequence of his own choices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maglor's dance

_One two three and turn, four five six, step back_

Why was he still here?

_Seven eight and bow. Again!_

His hand did not hurt even though it looked black. He knew it was a bad thing, he knew that once the burning went beyond the sinews there would be no more pain. But he did not care.

People did not understand. They thought it was the oath to his father driving his actions. It never was.

Honour, loyalty to his family perhaps, pride most certain. But not the oath. They were fools, those who thought that. As if the Valar would not have been forgiving if they had returned and asked to be relieved of this cursed vow. At least in the beginning.

He knew very well that what had driven them forward were their own decisions. Their own deeds, their own crimes, the knowledge that there was no way of turning back time. That was what had haunted them all. 

He did not hate his father, unlike some of his brothers. He knew they had all been old enough to choose. And a choice they had made. He had left those that were so important to him behind, his wife, his children. And though the insight pained him, he knew he never had regretted doing so. It had been the only possible choice. In that moment, he had listened to his heart, rather than his mind. He had longed to see the world, to escape the golden cage that was Aman. He would never have been happy anymore if he had not gone, the longing was too strong. No, he did not go for an oath alone.

Had he ever been happy since?

_seven, eight, no! try again at the third step!_

The answer was crystal clear. Yes.

His long life had been dedicated to war and fighting, and strangely that had made him happy at times. He used to feel guilty about that, somehow it should not have been possible to be content for those who had committed so many crimes.  With time he had come to understand that one did not prevent the other, it was all part of life, with its ups and downs.

When he was in charge of his troops with every single man listening to his command, when orders were perfectly executed and every movement happened exactly the way he wanted, yes he felt happy.

When he rode through his lands, feeling the wind play with his hair, moving from one encampment to the other to defend what they called Maglor's gap now, he had been happy. When Elwing’s young twins started to learn how to write and wrote letters to him to tell him how much they loved him, even though they knew very well who he was, what he had done, yes he felt happy. When he met people that shared his thinking, friends, old and new, when he was alone with Maedhros, who was dearest to him of all his brothers, yes he felt happy.

But when he wrote music, he felt sad, when he played his harp, he grieved. For in those moments, he knew how often he had betrayed them, those that he loved, time and time again, by the choices that he had made. Why he had not left the Silmaril where it was, now at the end? He did not know. Looking to his charred hand, he felt regret rising. But he told himself it was pointless, it had been his own decision, no? 

_And one and two and three and four, slower now!_

He could not suppress the memories of teaching his son how to dance, now so long ago. He never had taught him the harp, the boy never had heard the songs he had written while he had stayed here, in Endorre. In any case, he suspected that the boy would not have been interested, he was more of a dancer than a player. Through the years, he had taught the songs to others, but would they remember?

Would his music survive? With his remaining brother gone, there was no one left out there who cared. It might well be that he would be remembered only as a war lord, one of those fighting brothers that had caused so much pain to the world. It might be, but maybe it did not _have_ to be. Suddenly he felt confidence rising that there would be someone who remembered him for his music. The twins, one of his young friends maybe, or even some of the wise. The thought made him feel strangely at peace.

The earth started to shake, he could barely keep standing, waves were rising higher, the water was coming. He did not run, did not even move. He would await the flood here, he had made his choice.

Life was a dance, and it had to be danced till the end.


End file.
